Pitbull

                            You slow thing,
you with your superfluous yips,

what can you suppose I want from you?
My instinct feeds me; I can tooth-and-claw

any bone to brightness, I lick the sockets
of the air to track my next hunger.

But you who of your urges make ideas
can't guess why I break from your steadfast

and dull pettings for the first ripe bitch I smell,
my magnificent flanks flexing toward her

as you spindle along far behind;
why sniffing her asshole wags the stars;

or why I tongue and tongue a sore
to keep it raw and salty. My next hunger

is me: the rare, incarnate meat of me.
O frail, O small, if you want me

to love you, take off your muzzle
of words and fang this pig's ear of a world,

your mouth, for once, filled only with your teeth.

Copyright © 2009 Kimberly Johnson All rights reserved
from Gulf Coast
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission